by Jo Clayton
He pulled the door shut and went back to pacing, gulping down several cups of the strong steaming liquid as he paced. The hollow in his belly that spurred him into ordering the sandwiches had vanished before Jassi came in with the tray. Helpless, that’s what he was, nothing he could do to change what was going to happen; he couldn’t remember feeling this helpless since the day four-year-old Taga drifted lost in an angry ocean clutching a ship’s timber, sure nobody would ever find him.
THE FORT’S MAIN tower was a dark gray thumb thrusting into the sky. Sammang stood in the bow glaring at it when he wasn’t scanning the water for the constantly shifting sandbars that were the plague of the coast along here. The Arth Slyans were below decks again, out of sight and out of the way. They crept closer to the fort. The sun was a hammer beating down, the glare from the water hard and bright, hiding the sand until they were almost on it, until it was almost too late to avoid jamming the ship into the soft sucking traps. They crept along, feeling their way through the water. The fort was silent. No one on the walls, no challenges. The ship came even with the dark mass. Silence. Hot, limp, cataleptic. They slid past into the deeper water, the brownish stain from the outflow vanishing into the blue of the open sea. Sammang drew his arm across his face, slapped at the rail. “Turrope, Rudar, ‘Reech, get those sails up.”
* * *
MID-AFTERNOON. A knock. He smoothed his hair down, composed his face, walked with slow controlled steps to the door and pulled it open.
Jassi grinned at him. “He downstairs again. That slave.” She tapped at Taguiloa’s arm. “Din I tell you?”
He cleared his throat. “Tell him I’m meditating, but I’ll be down in a breath.”
“I give him a jar of the good stuff. He happy. No sweat.” She giggled. “You come down ‘f you want, but he din ask to see you. He give me this.”
Lead seals clanked dully at the ends of the red ribbon tied about the roll of parchment. He steadied his hand, lifted the roll until he could see the pattern squeezed into the lead. “The Emperor’s sigil,” he said softly. “Maratullik’s man you said?”
“Yeah, I said. You gonna read that?”
Taguiloa smiled. “I am gonna read it.” He carried the scroll to the window, rubbed the ribbon off, hitched his hip on the sill and flattened the parchment on his thigh. After skimming through the elaborately brushed signs, he started at the top and read it again. His name. The names of the others in the troupe. Horses. Wagon. Props. All listed. Commanded to appear before the Emperor and his consort two nights hence. Under the name PLAYERS OF THE LEFT HAND. They were further commanded to move next day into the rooms provided in meslak Maratullik where they would be the Emperor’s resident company. He set his hand on the notice, grinned at Jassi. “Command performance. Before the Emperor.”
She slapped her hand on her thigh. “Din I tell you, din I? din I?”
“That you did, jass. Tell Papa Jao to lay on a feast tonight. Everyone in the inn and all the players in the Quarter you can fit at the tables. Scoot.”
He watched her swing out laughing and excited, shouting the good news as she clattered down the stairs, then frowned at the parchment. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life in this dead-alive steambath of a city. Breaking loose would take some tricky maneuvering, though. He couldn’t just pick up and leave. Seshtrango send the man boils on his butt and a plague of worms. He sighed. Brann and Harra would have to get to Maratullik somehow, change his mind. Or… well, that’s for later. Maybe he’s not so hot to keep hold of us, just wants something to distract the Emperor from the way his security chief had lost a clutch of slaves. The troupe was a toy to dangle in front of him. Brann, do I owe this to you like all the rest? He tossed the parchment roll on the table and settled himself into a corner of the room to do his breathing exercises and meditate himself back into the calm he needed to handle what was happening.
ANOTHER LATE AFTERNOON. The troupe turns onto the lakefront avenue, this time passing through the gates of Maratullik’s meslak. Guards before, guards behind, slave on a cranky white mule. Lake water turned hard and bright as sapphire shards, the sun burning hot in a cloudless sky. Rumbling past slaves trotting on late errands who cringe into the walls and watch the procession nimble along. Air burning in Taguiloa’s throat, catching there when Cymanacamal rumbles and belches a gout of steam… The walls, the stone blocks of the paving creak beneath and around him. No wind, the latening day is so still every sound is a slap against his ears. Ominously still, once the noise of the mountain’s stirring has subsided. Premonition sits like an ulcer in his belly. He tells himself it is pre-performance jitters. This is perhaps the most important performance of his life, not because he will be dancing before the Emperor-he has few illusions about the quality of the Emperor’s appreciation and a deep-seated Hina resentment of all Temuengs, especially those in positions of power-it is important because it will determine the course of the rest of his life. He sits with the reins draped loosely through his fingers letting the cob pick his own pace, a willed nay-saying in his head. Nothing is going to go wrong, disaster will not happen, nothing happened in the Hand’s house before that crowd of louts, nothing will happen when they perform before a court certain to be better mannered. Brann riding in front of the cob, Jaril perched behind her, Yaril-hound running beside her, her dun is restive, jerking his head about, drawing his black lips back, baring long yellow teeth. Harra riding beside the wagon, strain showing on her face. Nay-saying again, he will not see that strain, will not look at her again. Linjijan sitting up for once, fingering his practice flute, shifting continually. Even Linjijan the self-absorbed is restless and uneasy. About what? He will not think about Linjijan.
The palace gates open to take them in.
AN UNDERSTEWARD led them to a room opening off the audience hall where they would be performing and left them to get ready after telling Taguiloa that the hall was being prepared as he requested, matting on the floor, low stools for the musicians, a screened-off area to retire behind when one or the other of them wasn’t on stage.
There were screens here also, set up at the far end of the long narrow room, dressing rooms of a sort. Along one wall two coppers of hot water simmered on squat braziers with soft white cloths heaped high on small tables beside the braziers, fine white porcelain basins beside the towels. Taguiloa smiled as Brann went immediately to the basins, ran her fingers over them hunting makermarks. Against the other wall, nearer the door, a long low table with pots of tea, wine jugs, fingerfood in elaborate array. Runners of braided, reed taking the chill off the stone floor, a scatter of plump silk pillows. The Hand must have enthused wildly about them.
Brann felt a touch of pleasure in Taguiloa’s evident delight, a touch of satisfaction at this indication of the troupe’s high repute, but pleasure and satisfaction drained rapidly out of her as had all feeling since her folk left with Sammang, except for an occasional twinge of uneasiness when she thought of what slept within her. She sang to it at night, Sleep Slya Slya sleep, Yongala dances dreams for you, and hoped the god would sleep until Brann took them both back to the slopes of Tincreal. In spite of the lethargy that seized on her the past three days, she’d struggled to present her usual face to the world, grateful to Taguiloa and the others for giving direction to her life when every other purpose had been stripped from her. Having to stay with the troupe and perform with them meant it would be a while longer before she had to make painful decisions about what she was going to do with the rest of her life, it was an interlude when she could relax, enjoy the approval of audiences, the friendship of Taguiloa, Harra and Negomas and the comforting indolence of Linjijan, and let life flow about her undisturbed and unexamined.
She stripped, took the dance robe Jaril handed her, and wriggled into it, smoothed it down over her breasts and hips, enjoying the slide of the silk against her skin, pleased by the way it clung and showed off the body beneath. “I’m getting very vain,” she told Jaril, giggled at the face he made.
&nb
sp; Taguiloa dressed quickly, pulling on a crimson silk body suit, tied a broad gold sash about his waist, began spreading the white paint over his face.
A commotion at the door. He turned toward the curtained arch, smoothing the white onto the back of one hand and between his fingers.
The drape billowed violently. A tall thin girlchild stalked in, followed by a seven-foot guard. Three steps in, she stopped and looked around with arrogant inquisitiveness. Hot yellow eyes landed on Taguiloa. “I am Ludila Dondi,” she said, “sister of the Consort.”
He bowed. “Damasatirajan.”
She stared at him as if she expected more from him, but he felt safer silent so he continued to wait, mute as the huge guard who stayed half a pace behind her.
She brushed past him, took up the jar of facewhite, poked her finger in it, then wiped the finger on the wall, dropped the jar without bothering about where it fell. By luck it landed upright on one of the pillows; annoyed but forced to keep silent, Taguiloa caught up the jar and set it back on the table, stood watching as Ludila Dondi sauntered about the room, poking and prying into everything. She slapped a heavy hand on a drumhead, ignored the alarm on Negomas’ face as she beat harder and harder on the skin, laughing at the booms she produced. Negomas bit his lip and said nothing, but his brown eyes were eloquent. She gave the drum a kick, he caught it as it toppled and scowled after her as she strolled to Harra. “Are you the seer?” She put her hands on narrow hips and scanned Harra from head to toe with insolent thoroughness.
“No, damasaorajan.”
“I am the Dondi, ketcha.” She turned slowly, glaring about the room. “Where’s the seer? I want the seer.”
Brann stepped around the screen and bowed, antipathy sitting sour on her stomach. When she straightened, she watched the Dondi’s face change. The Temueng girl felt it too. Hate at first glance. She was very young, long thin arms, long thin legs, black hair hanging loose, elaborate earrings in long-lobed ears, small mirrors bound in silver. A mix of some sort. Ternueng plus something else. And dangerous, for all that she was a child. She was empowered. Warning plucked at Brann’s nerves, then she felt the god stirring in her and forgot everything else. No, she thought fiercely, no you don’t, you don’t ruin Taga’s life.-No! She drew in on herself, pushing the god-force flat.
The Dondi walked around her, nostril lifted in a sneer. “You real or fake?”
“I am an entertainer, oh sabr the Dondi.” Brann was pleased but rather surprised at how cool and controlled she sounded. “Which would you prefer?”
The Dondi prowled about her with awkward adolescent ferocity, tugging at Brann’s hair, pinching her breast, poking a finger into her stomach, drawing a hand down the curve of her hip, treating her like an animal on the block. Brann felt no anger, only a deeper and more intense loathing.
Bored with the lack of reaction, the Dondi stepped back. “Prophesy, oh seer.”
“Certainly, satir the Dondi.” Brann lifted her arms, pressed her hands together to make a shallow bowl. “Place your hand on mine, please.”
“Which hand?”
“Whichever you choose, Sit amp; the Dondi. The choosing is part of the reading.”
The Dondi looked at her hands, started to extend the right toward Brann, then snatched it back. “Nol” She wheeled and stalked from the room, followed by the mute guard.
Brann shivered and looked sick.
Taguiloa came to her, touched her shoulder with his unpainted hand. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know.” Brann shuddered. “I think she was just curious. Or sniffing at us to see what we were.” She went silent for a breath or two. “I shouldn’t have come here, Taga. Should have sprained my ankle or something.”
“Couldn’t do that. Not with Maratullik breathing down your neck.” He soothed her, though he agreed with her, wishing he’d thought of it himself, but he didn’t want anxiety tightening her muscles and perverting her timing. “Make them drool, Bramble, make them pant for what they can’t get, make them forget you’re anything but a woman.”
She shook her head, laughed. “All right. All right, Taga. I get the message.”
“Good.” He went back to the table and began smoothing the white paint over his other hand.
* * *
BRANN’S DANCE went well, no one jumping up to denounce the fire as demon-bred or accuse her of running off with imperial slaves. Applause when she finished was enough to show some interest but not great enthusiasm. Taguiloa relaxed as the dance went on, satisfied that the Dondi’s visit was an aberration, not an indication that anyone here had serious questions about them. One thing bothered him. It was a dead house, Temuengs were sitting like stumps out there, barely could stir up a flash of response. He rubbed at the nape of his neck. Just meant more work, that was all.
The audience hall was a huge barrel-vaulted room, large enough to hold the Quarter’s market square and have space left over; hundreds of glass and gold lamps were clustered along the walls and hanging on gilded chains from the ridge of the vault, swinging slightly in the drafts, painting a constantly shifting web of shadow on the floor and on the forms of those seated about the dance mat, from the look of the crowd; most of the meslar lords in Durat. Royal Abanaskranjinga sat on a carved and gilded throne on a dais a double-dozen steps above the floor, behind him a carved and gilded screen. Taguiloa caught glimpses of dark figures moving behind the screen, probably the Emperor’s wives and concubines and some of his older children. His present Consort sat six steps below him, her head even with his knees. On a cushion by her feet was a young boy, a stiff, determined look on his round face; no more than four or five, he was the chosen heir at present, the favorite among old Krajing’s many sons. Closest to the dais were none of the meslars, but a number of dark-clad Temuengs with the same mix in them as in the Dondi, behind them a clutch of men and women wearing heavy brown robes with cowls pulled forward so their faces were hidden in shadow.
TACUILOA FINISHED his clown dance and bowed, avoiding the Emperor’s hungry black eyes, eyes that caressed him, seemed to devour him. During the dance the Emperor had laughed and slapped his thigh, bent and whispered in his Consort’s ear. Hungry, hungry eyes. No wonder Maratullik wanted a distraction to take the Emperor’s gaze off him. Taguiloa bowed again and ran behind the screen.
Brann brought him a cup of tea and a towel. “It’s going well,” she whispered.
Han-a came behind the screen for her hoops and fingerbells. “It’s going well,” she whispered, then looked from one to the other as they broke into hastily stifled Ogees. “Fools,” she said amiably, and turned to wait for her cue, clinking the small gong to let Linjijan and Negomas know she was ready.
Taguiloa sipped at his tea and gazed at Brann. She was wound so tight that another turn would shatter her. He kicked a pillow across to her, sat beside her. After a moment he closed his hand over hers. It was damp and cold and oak-hard. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I don’t. It’s like the air is pressing in on me. Not jitters exactly, I don’t know.” Silence awhile. They sat quietly listening to the music, the scrape of Harra’s feet, the clink of her bells. “Who are those brownrobes?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m frightened, Taga.”
He patted her hand but said nothing. Reassuring lies wouldn’t do here, he was too disturbed himself. He’d awakened the Emperor from his torpor and wrung laughter from him; he had a sense of approval flowing from the audience, but all the reponses out there were just a hair off, nothing he could put his hand on, nothing he could ignore either. He was elated with his success and furious he couldn’t enjoy it without this other thing niggling at him.
The music stopped. A ripple of applause. Harra came stalking behind the screen, moving with frustrated ferocity, stripping the bells from her fingers, the hoops from her arms. “They’re half dead out there. I’d rather yestereve’s louts.” Setting the bells and hoops on a table with angry precision, she went scowling to the tea
-table. She poured herself a bowl, gulped it down, poured another. “That was not an experience I want to repeat.” She sighed and sipped, then lifted the bowl in a mock toast. “Luck to your feet, Taga. You’ll need it.” She shivered, set the bowl down. “Time to get back out there.”
He felt the growing deadness of the audience when he wheeled out. It dragged at him, drained his energy. As if the black Temueng eyes and the yellow eyes of the mixes were mouths pressed against his flesh, consuming him as he danced for them. He forced himself to go on though his limbs felt leaden and his edge was gone. He pulled in, took fewer chances, and even then felt he danced on the rim of a precipice.
The music changes.
Taguiloa falters. Covers. Tries to go on.
A hot force takes his body, moves his feet in a complex pattern across the dance mat.
A rumbling in the ground below the palace.
The lamps sway and flicker.
The shadows dance in broken webs across the floor and the faces of the silent watchers.
Brann comes from behind the screen, dances toward him, her feet moving as his feet move. Her hair is white and shifting about her head as if windblown, though the air is heavy, thick, still.
Her face is strained and pale. She moves with a stiff resistance that matches his own, moves into the dance with him, weaving a pattern about and through the pattern he is weaving.
Moving gets easier for both of them. The-music grows wilder and wilder. The walls groan.
The Temuengs sit frozen.
Abanaskranjinga shifts about on his throne, tries to stand, beats his meaty fists on the throne arms.
The dance goes on, inexorable as the passage of seconds into minutes, minutes into hours.
The Consort struggles to leave her chair, panting and squealing as her body fails-to answer her will.
